I’m travelling for work again.  On one hand it’s just fabulous not having to make dinner, nor rush across town to pick up the girls from daycare. I only have to get myself ready in the morning.  I could exercise (I could!) without someone making derogatory comments.  I can watch TV, rated ‘MA’, uninterrupted.  I can catch up on weeks worth of emails.  Someone else is making my bed and replacing my towels.  Pure bliss!

Of course, there’s the dirty underbelly of being ‘sans kids’.  It’s boring.  I feel detached, alone in the universe.  When I do talk to them on the phone they are distracted by television, video games, or water dripping from the faucet.  I ask them if they had Chiclets and dust-bunnies for dinner and they reply ‘yes, Momma.’ 

I’m lonely. 

I’ll try to remind myself of this next time I’m up to my eyeballs in fighting, back-talking, mess-making kids.

Lately I realized that there’s a green-eyed monster in our midst.  Recent conversations with friends and family, or even postings on social networking sights, I hear many of these types of comments:

“That married mom gets a break from parenting, and an adult to talk to.  Also, dating is hell!”

 “The divorced mom gets weekends off!!  I am always on duty!”

“That mom of one child has it SO easy!”

“The mom of multiple children has built-in playmates for her kids, my child always expects me to entertain her”

“That new mom has kids that actually think she’s the center of the universe, must be nice”

“The mom of older children can DO things alone, like bathroom breaks…”

“That empty-nester mom is always travelling and just enjoying life”

“The career mom gets to get out of the house and experience adult interaction every day, whereas I’m covered in spit-up and play-do and have heard the same knock-knock joke 37 times”

“The stay-at-home mom gets to spend quality time with her children, I have to deal with the ‘children’ at work”

In every one of these statements a trend pops out at me, the word Mom.  We’re all moms; we all have those hellish moments, and (hopefully) we all have those wonderful moments.  Don’t worry, I won’t ask that we join hands and sing ‘Kumbayah’, but I really think it’s time to put that green-eyed monster back under the bed.

Outside:

Cicadas buzz Doppler-like from tree to tree.  The pool fountain burbles contentedly.  The A/C units hum.  Kids holler from down the street. The garbled drone of a children’s song croons from an ice cream truck. The lawn swing creaks.

Inside:

(Girls watching a cartoon)

Eva: “That guy has an England accent.” 

Annika:  ”It’s French. ”

Eva: “It’s England!”

Annika: “It’s FRENCH”

Eva: “England”

Annika: “FRENCH!!!”

Eva: “ENGLAND!!!”

Annika: (voce sotto) “……It’s French, stupid….”

Eva: “MOMMMMMMA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Thuds ensue from the girls whacking each other.  Screams erupt that can be heard in Kathmandu.

Outside:

The sound of a mom groaning.

I just returned from an eight-day road trip to Colorado with my daughters.  I barely made it back alive.

I remember the when I was a child and my parents would take me, a lonely-only child, cross-country in the bed of our pick-up truck.  They’d toss me a fast food joint’s kiddie meal, which was the only time all year I was able to eat junk food as my parents were in their granola phase, then they would quickly shut and lock the cab window, locking me away.  They were unable to hear me for the next 1200 miles. 

Kids these days (here comes the old-person rant) don’t know how good they got it.  They have DVD players, with literally hundreds of movies.  When I was little, if I missed it at the theatre or the reruns on TV, I missed it, period. 

Kids these days have hand-held video games.  I had a hand-held baseball game with flashing lights that represented  the hitter, runner, pitcher and the ball.  Those 9-volt-battery-operated lights and the droning ‘wah-wah’ sound was the entire game.

Kids these days have the attention span of a chipmunk.  During my childhood road trips I would read books until I became car-sick, or talk to my dog for much-needed company.  The girls have each other, but beyond the fighting they don’t realize that having someone to talk to as a positive thing.

Kids these days have no creativity.  I complained about boredom as a child, but from that boredom would come imaginitive scenes from talk-show host, to a Hitchcock movie to an amateur production of Romeo and Juliet, broadcast from the bed of that truck, with my dog playing various non-talking parts (don’t ask).

As we drove along through the vast oil fields and windmills of the panhandle of Texas, through the gorgeous colors and sporadic rain clouds in northeast New Mexico, and finally up the stunning mountain passes of Colorado, I’d point out the scenery, geology and biology as we’d pass. 

“Look, an antelope!”

“Where?? Mom, you made me miss my shot! Now I have to start over at level 14!”

“Wow, look at that!  Those must be the Sangre de Cristo mountains!! Do you know how they got their name?”

“Huh?  We’re watching a movie, Mom, jeez!”

Kids these days….

So, I have this thing on my face.  No, it’s not my nose, and I’m not playing ‘name that body part’ with a 2-year-old.  (even though that is kind of fun)

This ‘thing’ appeared about 6 weeks ago out of nowhere.  So, good hypochondriac that I am, I went to the dermatologist.  She, all 26 years of her, with her naturally tan and superior skin told me brusquely and non-politely that this thing on my face is a pre-cancer.  Excuse me…A WHAT?  Anything associated with the ‘C’-word can’t be good.

After I slowly left the office in a complete emotional fog, I raced to the Internet and did some research.  These ‘actinic keratoses’ or pre-cancers are quite common, are easily treated (by a cream that burns my face like medieval hot oil), and are supposedly not that big of a deal. 

But it SO is a big deal. 

I’m fair-skinned, granted, and I got my dose of sunburns as a kid.  But, my parents slathered newly-invented sunscreen on me and squeezed hats onto my big head (which I promptly removed).  I’ve been wearing sunscreen, especially on my face, RELIGIOUSLY since I found my first wrinkle in my mid-20′s  (unfortunately that didn’t prevent more wrinkles in its wake).  My dad had some pre-cancers too but he was in his late 50′s.  I’m perching precariously close to 40, but not 60!   As my kids would say, especially in the teen-aged years: “It’s just not fair”

Now I am over-diagnosing everything on my body. 

“Has that mole changed?” 

 ”Is that REALLY a freckle?” 

“Is that a scab or a tumor?” (pronounced ‘Tu-MAH’ a la Schwarzanegger) 

I also have become completely overzealous with the nagging at and hovering over my daughters (more fair-skinned than I, if that’s even possible). 

“Put on a HAT before you get this awful-looking thing on your face like your Momma!!!”

I hate facing the inevitable, that awful rumor that I won’t be here forever.  I really despise how this small spot on my face has grown to represent the fear that I’ll leave my children and my life without accomplishing anything positive.  Well, unless you consider producing frequent eardrum-busting rants during my stint as a parent as ‘positive’.  

Some gloomy thoughts.